


Daughters of Hera.

by Gevar



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: The Daughters of Hera seen through the eyes of Ares.





	Daughters of Hera.

Zeus’ daughters shine. Hera’s daughters are invisible. It’s not an embellishment. It’s the truth.

Open one’s eyes, cast a sweeping gaze, and see Athena. Daughter of Zeus, the beacon of infinite knowledge and wisdom flashing in her eyes. Pay heed to one’s ears, let the airwaves reach into one’s ear shell, and listen Artemis. Daughter of Zeus, hunting flows in her veins and the unattainable wildness in her hair.

See how the daughters of Zeus and their existences stretching from land to land.

Poems written and sang of their deeds. Potteries sculptured and painted of their virtues. Temples and statues erected in their honour.

See how daughters of Hera and their existences—sometimes spoken, sometimes forgotten, sometimes feared, sometimes admired. Always at the tip of mortal’s tongues.

If a mortal perished before the tale’s passed, see how their legacies amount to nothing. Buried in the distant memories of the dead.

Ares has to admit; the fate of Zeus’ hated son or his lame and crippled son is far kinder than the ones paved for the daughters of Hera.

* * *

The Daughters of Hera may have exchange fewer words between them. Hardly seen together for most times.

They blend into the background, while Athena impresses the crowd with her intellect, or Artemis dazzles those humans with her prowess at weapons yield by men.

Oh, those poor, poor, poor humans.

There’s much more to his full-blooded sisters, than just their invisibility, than just the stamps etched to their names, to Mother’s name. Their strength, like them, are concealed.

And hush, Ares will part secrets he held dearest to his heart. Secrets of a family’s ugly history. Of his sisters. Of his mother’s daughters. Of his father.

_Listen._

_Remember._

* * *

Hebe’s the one. The child they desired. The daughter to symbolise their renewed love for another. But the allure of a new-born babe does not capture the fleeting attention of Zeus. He breaks another vow. Mother unleashes her wrath on his women like it’s a chore to be done.  

Father holds her higher, above Hebe’s older siblings. Above Hera’s other daughters. He listens to her. Indulges her whims. Earns her admiration. Her unwavering support.  

Yet Hebe grows to be Zeus’ harshest critic. Too vocal, even. Hera tells her to stop. She needs no defender. She just wants Hebe alive, unhurt.

Soon, Hebe loses Father’s favour. No titles awarded to the child once symbolised Zeus’ love for Hera. All Hebe receives; a cupbearer.

Ares wants to argue for Hebe’s sake. Hebe’s golden ringlets shake softly. Her lips, rosy red, curling into a smile. Takes Ares’ calloused hands in her soft ones, and says, “If this is the price I must pay to oppose Father’s philandering ways, then I am satisfied.”

Hebe doesn’t stop. Affair, after affair, after affair. She stands to her ground. Criticises Zeus, as the flawed Olympian he is. And escapes his wrath, time and time again.

* * *

Enyo, his sister-wife, Goddess of War, has a penchant for subtlety in every measure she takes. Ever the master strategist, she lays her piece on the board, a pawn here, a rook there, a bishop somewhere.

It takes days. It grows to months. And years go by. Zeus has all overlooked the families of the women he used and tossed aside. One by one, like dominoes, the clans of royalty, of nobility crash and burn. Until the traces of their lineage are tainted with ruins.

Mother may never punished Europa. Enyo enacts the justice that eludes Europa. Laying waste to her descendants, through war, through famine, through sickness and anything one could imagine.

Father never catches on. Mother shares a knowing look, her lips bearing the smile of a proud mother.

Enyo is the Goddess of War. Had she not gained that title, Ares fancies her a trickster of Zeus’ calibre.

* * *

Father’s eyes wander. Oh, Father’s eyes of sapphire blue seek for things he can have, but shouldn’t. Never set on Mother, his Olympian sister. Never set on the woman he married and called ‘wife’, ‘queen’, or ‘beloved’.

That’s how it always starts. His eyes wander from Titans to Olympians, and finally stops at the mortals; the womenfolk. Father smiles. Father charms. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it fails. Father turns to tricks and brute force—to have his way with these fragile women.

From his seeds, they beget his children. Half-divine. Half-mortal. Walking reminders of the treachery he committed. His betrayals of their marriage, flaunts themselves in Hera’s shame, in Hera’s face.

What woman’s pleased to see her husband conquer another woman? To witness him violate the sacred vow she holds dear? No woman deserves such fate.

Mother’s heart breaks. Mother barricades herself in her room. Mother weeps, hard. Like her world just ended. Perhaps it is. Perhaps, it isn’t. Eris’ barely ten. Ares understands her confusion. He’s baffled by Father’s callous disregard of Mother.

Father doesn’t care. Father hasn’t care in a long time. Nobody knows why. Ares thinks, not even one soul would want to understand Zeus. Not even Hera, for the answer might shatter what’s left of her dignity and pride.

Eris’ chaotic fury is her greatest strength. And her biggest downfall. She hides her trembling fingers, tilts her defiant chin upwards.

“Apologise to Mother,” says Eris, through gritted teeth. Her prepubescent voice sharpens.

Father laughs. Loud, booming and harsh. Amused, yet his blue eyes holds no mirth.

“Apologise to Mother,” repeats his sister, his twin. Ever insolent.

“ _No_.”

Zeus doesn’t smile. Father’s word is final. Not meant to be challenged. His action is just, the law, the right choice. Hera deserves no pity. Not even one elicited by a bewildered child.

Eris lets her temper emboldens her, swallows her fear, drowns out her self-preservation. If there’s any doubt of Eris’ parentage—she proves she’s _the_  daughter of two temperamental Olympians.

Of all the daughters they sired together, Eris has to be _the_ one, crazy enough to do what she did.

And Eris shrieks. Madness. Chaos. It’s the beginning of discord tearing sweet Eris apart. It will do so, in many centuries to come, twisting his twin into a fear that spreads across mortal’s realms. A figure meant for fear and hatred.

She launches herself at Father. Scrawny fingers for claws. Her white teeth—no, fangs—gleaming underneath the moonlight. Brings her hands down, strike for strike, scrapes healing skin, and slashes hardened skin.

A tiny child housing the volatile Olympian fury, unleashing her miniscule strength on Zeus, the Mighty God. Until her talon grazes Zeus’ cheek deep, blood oozing down across his face.

Father raises his hands in defence. The shock, the disgust, the apprehension, the wrath. All fighting to settle on his bearded face. Ire wins for the battle of Father’s face and it shows.

Her victory’s short-lived. For Zeus brings forth his rage. Beats his daughter into submission she refuses. Eris hangs on.

It takes Hera’s pleas for clemency, on the behalf of a foolish daughter. It takes Hestia on her knees, begging for compassion. It takes Themis to argue for fitting reprimand, not to enact in haste and impulsive anger.

He strikes a slap to Eris’ face. Returns with a scar of his making on her face. And Father stops.

Eris lays on his feet. Bruised, battered, and broken. But _not_ defeated. For she smiles—wicked, smug—at the scar permanently etched on the flawless and mighty Zeus.

She does not care for the scar on hers. She’s far too gone in her hazy and anarchic lunacy to comprehend her actions. It’s the first defiance Eris, daughter of Hera, committed against Zeus. It’s her last.

And Ares, aged ten, learns to never necessitate Father’s legendary wrath.

* * *

Eileithyia is the _true_ invisible child. She has long been hidden in the shadows of her siblings. Hera sweeps her in a motherly embrace, parts to her with intimate confidences of womenfolk. One that no women take pleasure in learning.

Quiet and meek Eileithyia prospers under Mother’s guidance and Hestia’s watchful eyes. Supplants a taken title no one glorifies until the time for Goddess of Childbirth’s needed.

Ares finds it almost amusing—for Father venerates himself too much. That he should recognises his features and its entirety on Eileithyia’s face. Yet Zeus makes no recollection of a daughter his wife bore to him.

She doesn’t speak. Holds her tongue in check. Hera’s daughter, child of Zeus—and no one can remember if she attends the parties Dionysus throws in Zeus’ honour. Or she ever step a foot into Mount Olympus, greeted by guards in the custom fitting for the child of divine parentage.

Sometimes the guards sojourn her from entering, demanding her to state her business. As though she’s a minor goddess—she is, a Titan—she’s not, Zeus’ daughter—lies are not tolerated, Hera’s daughter—prove it, call upon the Queen and the guards will have a good laugh when she doesn’t show up.

Eileithyia takes their jest, taunts and horrid ridicules in strides even Hera lacks. She does not retaliate in any manner. Not in Hebe’s vocal criticism. Not in Eris’ reckless vehemence. Not in Enyo’s subtle violence.

She’s the odd one, that Eileithyia.

But Ares knows one fact is true. Timid, docile, modest Eileithyia is a force to be reckoned with. If push comes to shove. Father learns it the hard way. So does Ares.

Father’s outrage shows no bounds. Like his desires, it spreads and devours everything in its path; wife, son, daughter and common sense.

It starts innocently enough.

“I have made a _tribute_ to you, my sister-wife,” Zeus says, triumphant. Like the norm, Father returns from another illicit affair. The stench of sex clings to his robe.

“I received no such tribute from you, my _dear_ husband,” Hera snarls, polite and dangerous. Mother baits him with casual indifference, her anger shimmering beneath her curiosity.

“I think you do, Hera.” Father taunts her with his lips sealed shut of the woman’s identity.

Mother retorts, venom in her words, “I will find her, I will destroy her like the rest.”

Father gains a nefarious gleam in his eyes. His lips twisting into an ugly smirk. His adulterous conquest, he describes it in detail. Mother turns pale, her shoulders stiffen. She glances to her right, to her left—she misses Eileithyia by the vase, misses Ares by the large chair—and returns her sight to her husband.

“Please stop,” Hera implores, melodic and steely voice cracking. “I do not wish to hear this tale.”

“Do you not wish to hear how this tale ends, wife?” Zeus questions, his lips quirking into a lopsided grin. “How I turned my form into an injured bird? How I appealed to her maternal instinct? How I—”

“Stop,” Hera cuts off, her hands fly to her ears. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Please, Zeus. Not this.”

Ares recognises this tale. The horror on Mother’s face reaffirms his suspicions. It’s not the fabled romance of Zeus and Hera, his parents. No, this is the shameful truth on Zeus’ seduction—rape—of Hera.

Mother’s fear and shame morphs into dread. Like a cornered animal, she hurls herself at Father. Swipes Father with a timorous hand. Father flinches, reactive and his pride stings.

Zeus never handles women who fights back against him well. Be it his wife. Be it his daughter. He’s a man who takes the principle of fight fire against fire in its extremity. He holds his reddened cheek gingerly. Nostril flaring in anger.

Mother realises her mistake. It’s a little too late. She embraces the retaliation of her husband’s bruised ego.

Zeus demands, “ _Move_ , child,” and his voice thunders, rages in the darken skies. His sight set firmly on Hera, his wife.

“No,” Eileithyia utters.

“I said, _move_. And I will not ask twice.”

“If you want wish to move ahead and beat me to Tartarus, as you almost did with my sister before—all for the sake of wrapping your hands around Mother’s throat,” she does not raise her soft voice. “Then lay a finger on me and let your beloved womenfolk suffer as they strain to give life to your precious human babes and your bastards.” Her blue eyes are steel, matches the intensity of an angry Zeus. She is her father’s daughter.

“ _Father_ ,” Eileithyia adds, almost an afterthought.

Father tears his attention away from Mother to the daughter he’s forgotten. The daughter he seems to recall all in a sudden. Maybe it unsettles Zeus to see his features on his daughter to oppose him—instead reveres him like his other daughters.  

Father raises a finger that touches no skin. He stomps away from Mother and Eileithyia.

* * *

Eris. Enyo. Eileithyia. Hebe. Sisters of Ares and Hephaestus. Hardly Olympians, but minor goddesses in their own right. It bothers them not, that they are indiscernible to Father. To the others. They did not desire the legacies that come from the children of Olympian King and Queen.

They are content with their lot in life. Revels in the fact Daughters of Hera will never betray each other’s trusts. Gratified for the love Mother spares—no matter little, no matter insignificant. Hera is _not_ the best of mothers. Nonetheless, Hera _is_ their mother. That should be enough.

They are not the famed Daughters of Zeus. They never were. They never are. They never will be.

They are Daughters of Hera first, Children of Zeus last.


End file.
